


Prost

by horayytio



Series: Working Title (Pacrim Sux) [2]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: ALSO references to a christian god but don't fear that's not The Meat, Angst, Comfort, Drinking, Herman's POV, I mean basically everyone else is there but yeah those are the major chumps, M/M, a lot of drinking, also i didn't tag major character death but like. this is after the end of the movie so, cause i can't control myself, excessive toasting, the shatterdome is lit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2019-03-28 22:25:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13913439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/horayytio/pseuds/horayytio
Summary: It has been a hard night. Good- beyond good, Christ- but hard.





	Prost

It has been a hard night. Good-  _ beyond _ good,  _ Christ _ \- but hard. 

Hermann’s head buzzes and he drags numb fingertips along the table, thinking of Mako- a distance in her eyes as she embraced them all, the throngs of people reaching towards her, desperate touch her, to thank her, their savior, their  _ hero _ . An orphan from Japan. 

She excused herself a minute- an hour?- ago, and Raleigh's eyes are worried, but he didn’t follow. 

Hermann thinks of Herc, collapsed into a chair in the desolate control room and Tendo bent over a phone, hand cupped to the receiver as he chokes out “ _ Yes, sweetheart, we did it. Hug your daddy for me. _ ” and he hopes that Mako will be alright. 

Raleigh, who he thinks, in the end, is the most adult of them all, toasts to all the right things and as cholic liquid slips down his throat Hermann swears that he feels the words embed themselves into the walls, into the air, mingling with the clatter and hum of humanity and exuberance and joy and pain until it is One Voice. One Voice that, for a moment, everyone can hear- a mantra that belongs to them, to them only- 

_ To Pentecost. To Chuck. To the Shatterdome. To Families and to Freedom.  _

He catches sight of Newt from across the hall, battered, bloody, breathing, and the world stills. Newton notices him back, notices him looking, glances at his hands ( they’re trembling, an anxious tick that may embarrass a man who hasn’t just finished saving the world) and nods. They make their excuses. 

According to silent agreement the two make their way to the lab (Not to the dorms, not to a space that is dominated by any  _ one _ scent, any  _ one _ mind, but to  _ their _ space, the one they have made their own.), and Hermann’s body thrums with anticipation, even as his feet drag like lead and his knee asserts its absolute defeat.

He feels buoyant, and like dying. 

The kiss is, of course, the best of his life, but they are both tired, and drunk, and, though they will not admit it, still very,  _ very _ frightened, so when Newton pulls away, panting, muttering something about “reserves” and Hermann’s hands catch at his collar and pull him in again, it is only a moment before he lets him go, and gulps at the stale air with gratitude. 

Hermann knows it will not be the last kiss. He felt it, in the drift. 

They end up on the floor, with a bottle of bitter whiskey in between them.

From his position on the floor the rest of the lab looks giant, and Newton and himself become children in a kitchen, snickering in the dark of early morning and munching on stolen crackers and fruit under the table like mice. Or like the parish of a cathedral, tiny and hushed beneath high vaulted ceilings, united by their own desperation to be loved (by God, by each other). 

He thinks maybe a parish would be less drunk. Come to think of it, so would children. 

Newton is a flamboyant drunk, and when he almost topples, whiskey pattering lightly on the floor as he whoops “To science!”, Hermann feels a glow inside his chest, mummers “ _ Prost _ ” under his breath and finishes the rest of the toast in his head. 

_ To Pentecost. To Chuck. To the Shatterdome. To Families and to Freedom. _

Additional alcohol is, at this point, a drop in the ocean and Newton looks at him, says something, and there is  _ depth _ to his eyes, familiar now, and Hermann realizes that he cannot fathom a word that he is saying. 

Newton huffs a laugh. 

He realizes he has said that last bit out loud. 

“I said,” Newt begins again, “D’you believe in ghosts?”

Hermann blinks. Newton stares, patient. 

“No.”

“Mm.” Newton says, short, but unbothered. He turns away from Hermann, leaning against the cool metal of the filing cabinet (which, Hermann imagines, feels  _ glorious _ ) and cradles the tumbler close to his chest like a doll. Like a rosary. “I do.” 

The admission surprises Herman- except  _ no, it doesn’t, because of course he does, he knew that _ . It does intrigue him. 

“Why?”

“Why, what?”

“Why do you bleef… do you buhleaf- Why d’you think ghosts are real?”

“‘Cause,” Newton’s eyes are soft, distant. He rests his chin on his chest, and pulls the tumbler up to his cheek. Sighs. “‘Cause I’ve ripped up so many brains, and I can never figure out where the soul’s at.” 

Hermann nods. 

There is only the hum of the Shatterdome. The distant wail of music. Of laughter.

Newton presses one hand to the ground. “‘M gonna to miss them.” 

He knows that Newton means The Dead. Knows that he means more than The Dead. 

Hermann wishes that he could find it in himself to blame God. 

Instead, he slowly stirs, every movement laborious, every function howling, and drags his fatigued body across the ground until he is nestled up next to Newton, pressing his lips above his left ear. 

Newton hiccups, says “Aw, Herms”, and tucks his head up into Hermann’s collar. 

He was right. The filing cabinet feels  _ gorgeous _ . 

Something on Hermann’s side of the lab (but not really “Hermann’s” side, it is  _ theirs _ , like everything else) beeps, and Newton’s disgusting noodles from weeks ago age and congeal and grow mold, and the two survivors hold each other, looking out into a living museum of their history. 

Eventually, Newton sniffs, “Just like old times, remember?”, and Hermann smiles. 

Of course he remembers. 

He remembers this same room, the same floor. It isn’t the the same filing cabinet  _ but, well, beggars can’t be choosers _ . 

He remembers Newton’s pain, his regret. He remembers his own insecurities, reflected in a man who always seemed so far away ( _ “It’s stupid.” _ ), and the startling desire to protect him- Not just from the apocalypse, but from all of it. From every individual who felt that they had the  _ right _ to dismiss Dr. Newton Geiszler ( _ “I can assure you that it is not.” _ ) He remembers sitting this man, his best friend, back to a wall and holding on the first time thinking  _ Don’t give it away. Don’t give it away. This is not about you. Don’t give it away. _

Now, Hermann looks into the dim lab, their shared space, feels the weight of Newton’s head on his shoulder, and finds it only in himself to be grateful. 

He scoops his glass off of the floor, and raises it to heaven. 

_ To Pentecost. To Chuck. To the Shatterdome. To Families and to Freedom. _

Newt hiccups again, and raises his own glass in solidarity. 

“To kicking major Kaiju Ass!” 

**Author's Note:**

> Oh thE dRaMA oF iT ALL
> 
> Every fic I write should have nickleback playing in the background


End file.
